


The Way It Should've Been

by Iscariot76



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Reaper76 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-07-29 08:14:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7676902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iscariot76/pseuds/Iscariot76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU spinning off from animated short Hero where Soldier goes back to check on that poor Omnic and gets ambushed by Reaper who doesn't know any better about the identity of his captive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soldier is unstable in many ways he would ever willingly admit. Old habits die hard, and his act of benevolence ends up in an ungrateful sequitur.

 

 

 

 

Soldier looked down at the broken Omnic on the floor. It got pretty hard beating from the Los Mueltos thugs and seemed unable to move. It must've been lying here all this time, while he was chasing Los Mueltos and their payload, helpless and sad.

Stupid, he swallowed. He couldn't help the anger gurgling from the pit of his stomache as he observed the scene at his feet, which would've left many decent people comiserating; but decent he wasn't anymore. Old vigilante felt only anger.

"Future is a pathetic fantasy," irate soldier spat. Omnic's square slit of an eye stared calmly, yet questioningly up at him.

"It's a fat lie we tell to elude naive fools into believing that it's going to get better. That the world is changing into a better place, somehow."

As if by magic.

Soldier's head tilted up slightly, his chest heaving as if holding back a deep sigh, or rather a mouthful of profanities. The silence was short lived as he again started speaking with a hoarse voice that almost sounded like a wounded predator.

"Look at yourself. This, is the future. There is no other, only present reliving itself over and over again. Once it was other minor groups, and now it's you. We don't change. We just change targets."

"So do not ever pull off that peaceful resistance shit again because your feeble political correctness cannot penetrate thick skulls of these savages. Fight back. You are made of steel. You are stronger than any street thugs to start with. Why - "

Omnic pushed up its torso from the ground. There was a big dent on his head and its electric blue forehead lights were flickering dangerously but it didn't seem to care. It extended a firm metal hand. So much like human's, yet so different.

"Thank you, for I feel you are deeply agitated by what's happened to me. I appreciate your genuine compassion."

Soldier gritted his teeth at this benign comment. It was almost to the point of condescending.

"I am not - "

Soldier abruptly shut his mouth. His lips thinned into a stretched line. Arguing seemed useless. Better get this over with. Quick. He reached out his hand and held Omnic's. It's cool metal warmed under his palm. Aged soldier pulled broken Omnic upright with ease. He noticed that Omnic's leg joints were crushed, incapable of sustaining standing position let alone walking. Brows furrowed with indignation, old man tucked his arm under Omnic's shoulder and began to walk.

"Where are you taking me?"

"To the nearest scrap yard."

Soldier blurted out. Something about this unwary Omnic was getting under his skin.

"Oh."

It's response enraged him further, but then the worn out soldier sighed to himself. What are you, 5?

"I'll drop you off at the Omnic Supplies. You people can fix yourselves up, I heard."

"Yes, indeed."

Omnic's electric blue lights were twinkling with amusement and Soldier 76 didn't like it one bit.

"You should've threw me off when I said scrap yard, dummy."

"Well, I thought it was highly likely that you meant it as a joke. It didn't seem probable that you helped me only to destroy me yourself. Also, I tend to trust a nice human such as yourself."

Soldier clenched his teeth. It was amazing how it can get to his nerves so effortlessly. He fought back the urge to just drop it right there and then walk away. He managed to tamp down this tempting thoughts and snarled through his clenched jaw.

"You don't know a God dammed thing about what I am."

"True. You can not judge a book by its cover, they say. However, it is also true that the cover tells a lot about its content, if not all."

"You a member of Shambali, dummy?"

Omnic's blue lights brightened at the mention of the name.

"No, and I'm not a fan."

Soldier raised an eyebrow. He never met an Omnic who was negative about this particular group of Omnic priests. He wanted to inquire more, but the bright electric blue LED sign - in such an antique style that it almost felt tacky - loomed into his view and he thought better of it.

 

 

 

 

*   *   *

 

 

 

 

"Thank you."

Said Omnic as he sat it down on top of a metal bed, its mangled joints creaking noisily. Other Omnics who worked in the shop started busying themselves with assessing the damage it had took and preparing necessary parts and tools.

"Don't get yourself hurt out there."

Tired old soldier grunted as he turned his back and stepped out of the Omnic Supplies. It was well past midnight, but late night in Dorado was twinkling with festive lights dangling across the alleyways. He slunk under them, occasionally throwing sideway looks searching for signs of ambush. It was more of a habitual thing than a necessary precaution.

Soldier stopped dead on his track as a sharp light shot through his red visor.

Sniper.

With one fluid agile move, he managed to take cover behind the dimly lit, shadowed alley wall nearby. Cautiously, he tried to locate the sniper's location.

Only to find there wasn't any.

Dilapidated soldier stared blankly up at the hanging piñata. A single candy wrapped in a shiny metalic paper was protruding from pinãta's bulging belly, street lights glinting off from its surface.

Now who's the dummy?

It was stupid, thinking there might be a sniper out there after his head. He was nothing more than a nameless soldier now, caught up in the past and zealously trying his best to remain that way. Insignificant, futile and lost. He felt outdated and dull, and that was why he defied his better instincts when he heard a faint rustle behind him.

"Wrong judgement, again."

Eerie voice hissed into his ear and soldier jolted. Or at least he tried. Vise like grip was already wrapped around his throat and its _claw_ \- is that what it was? - was pin pointed right above his jugular, ready and eager to punch a hole into it. Soldier grated his teeth in anger, more to himself than anything else. He strained to assess the situation and narrow his options. It wasn't easy, seeing how the assassin still stood behind him and his own outrage getting in his way of clear thinking.

The assailant didn't kill him yet, and seemed to be in a talking mood. Maybe he is after something other than his worthless neck. Or perhaps he is just that kind of merc who liked to play with his prey... feeding off from the superiority of the moment, playing God. Soldier wasn't going to give him what he wanted, not a chance.

"How much did they pay you?"

"What?"

"Los Mueltos. How much did they pay you for their errand?"

"Los..."

Low hissing stopped for a briefest of seconds then a sudden ruthless mirth filled the vacant alley. Soldier tried not to flinch at this hair-raising outburst of laughter. It was cruel, terrorizing and made you plunge back into old nightmares. _His_ nightmares. Soldier clenched his jaw, trying in vein to suppress those vivid memories of regrets from his foolish, irreversible days.

"You know, as funny as it was I do appreciate your spirit. I will enjoy reaping you..."

Reaping? Whatever that was, he couldn't care less. Soldier seized the moment and kicked backwards as hard as he could aiming for the attacker's shin, only to hit thin air. Without thinking, he lunged his elbow in a sure angle to break the assailant's ribcage, and yet...

Nothing.

It was as if this thing was a ghost. Attacker sneered at his failed attempt and strengthened his grip around his windpipe. Soldier squirmed and kicked in vain, only to burn up what's left of oxygen in his vein faster. Even weaponized soldier such as himself cannot last long without oxygen. As his vision dimmed, he saw the biggest regret - his _only_ regret - laughing at him from afar. Curly black hair, dark skin, big black eyes.

Reyes.

Soldier felt his lungs crushing in for air to no avail.

If only had I killed you then.

Then nothingness engulfed him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first ficlet uploaded on archive, so any comments on what you think would be great :)  
> Also there might be typos and errors since I wrote this with my phone. Do let me know when you spot one!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soldier is desperate. He got something he intends to show no one, and somehow life finds a way to screw him.

 

 

  
  
Soldier awoke with a start. Echoing sound of clanking metal chain made him frown. So, he _was_ unlucky enough to be held captive by some nut job with a bad table manner. He will turn this situation to his advantage and break free, then make sure this lune regrets underestimating him.  
  
With aching joints and screaming muscles, soldier carefully assessed his situation in a pitch black space. He slowly adjusted his position until he was half upright, kneeling on the floor, his arms stretched wide and his wrist and shoulder joints creaking in pain from sustaining the weight of his upper body for God-knows-how many hours. But old soldier was experienced enough to appreciate the pain; it meant you still have your nerves intact. He tried wriggling his numb fingers and toes and felt his muscles move. No limbs lost, no nerves or muscles severed, it seemed.

Good.

He remarked to himself. But soon he found out the catch. His wrists and ankles were restrained with four separate thick metal chains, stretching far away from his reach. By the sound of echos bouncing off the walls, he could tell this place was huge. It implied omnious possibilities and he wasn't pleased. Soldier yanked the chains as hard as he could muster, but the chains were so tight that he could barely pull his arms an inch.

This isn't good.

Soldier growled in frustration. The size of the room, four seperate chains binding his limbs and the lengths of his restraints adjusted just right, these all felt too well prepared. This prick seems to have had a lot of experience with this game; practiced and methodical, even. This didn't bode well. Not one bit. 

Maybe he should play along whatever this crackpot has in mind, lull it into false sense of security... Then he heard the ghastly laugh.

"Oh, how sweet. Still thinking there is a way out."

Soldier flinched. There was that faint rustling sound, and its raspy voice leered in his ear.

"I like fighters."

Then he felt those cold claws ruffling his hair as if patting an obedient dog. He jerked his head backwards in anger, ready to bite its hand off if it ever tried that again.

"Get your hands off..."

Soldier stopped in the middle of his sentence as realization hit him. It just acted as if it could see him clearly in this smothering darkness.

Or...

The other possibility made him afraid.

Or maybe it was him that has gone blind.

He turned his head at a breakneck speed, trying to feel the air brushing his exposed lower part of his face. But he couldn't tell if his visor was still on or not because the air around him was so stagnant. Suffocating. He swallowed hard and reassessed the situation.

This is worse than bad.

He lost his sight years ago, and although the advanced technology made it possible for him to have almost perfect sight as before with little devices feeding electric signals directly into his brain, the transmission of graphic information was short ranged for safety reasons and he was as good as blind without his visor.  
  
Well, he _was_ blind, now that he come to think about it. He just never had the chance to define himself that way before.

"Oh, but I don't feel like it."

Raspy voice teased. It took him a second to realize what it didn't feel like to do. It was reaching out its claws and running it through his hair again. Soldier made a quick decision and snapped his head away from its claws with a seemingly infuriated move, but not too aggressive to test the thing's temper. From what it said, it seemed to prefer its preys feisty. Taking joy from watching them fight back. He hoped this tactic would distract this nut case enough to not to notice his greatest weakness. Old soldier's supposition proved to be on point. It laughed, with a hideous ringing of what you might call joy. It grabbed his hair with a forceful yank and bent his head down, positioning him as if he was bowing for an oath of loyalty to it.

Suppressing pained groan escaping from his throat, soldier chose his words carefully. He had to know.

"What's with you and darkness? What kind of freak are you?"

Somehow he knew it would get off on being called a freak.

"I prefer dark because I am one with it,"

And he was right again. There was a definite smirk in its voice.

"And I can sense your fear vibrating through it."

"You don't scare me, freak."

"Oh, but you are. I can taste it. Though as much as I would like to watch your fear eating away your eyes, I tend to save the best part to the last."

He did feel wary, that was true, but it was because of his exposed weakness not because he feared _it_. Its arrogant, self satisfied laughter was maddening but soldier didn't open his mouth to retaliate. He was not exactly in the position to afford the luxuty of correcting its misconception of him. Instead he concentrated on digesting what he just found out about his enemy.

So this thing allegedly senses things through darkness, but in not enough detail to read his facial expressions. That was good. And they were in darkness for sure, also a good news. Maybe he still has his visor on...

But at that precise moment, he felt its icy claws touching his bare cheek, caressing it.

Soldier swore profusely in his head. The possibility of him escaping seemed to grow narrower and narrower every passing moment.  
  
What did it do with his visor? How could he get it back without letting this head case know about his blindness?

He realized seconds too late that one of its claws got into his mouth. He tried to snap his head backwards but it was too late. Its other set of claws got firm hold of his jaws, keeping it in place and forcing him to open his mouth. He compelled his body to remain still as its sharp claws opened up a deep gash on the soft tissues inside his mouth. He could taste familiar salty, rusted steel and for some reason the smell he gotten so used to over the past years suddenly made him sick. He held back automatic gag reflex as best he could, but apparently that only made it ecstatic.

"Does it hurt? Do you want me to stop?"

He didn't answer to that patronizing taunt. He would never beg for its mercy. First, he didn't beg. Second, he was sure that lying flat on his stomach would only make it lose its interest in him, culminating in his death.

So he kept his mouth shut, inside of his cheek swollen and throbbing horribly, tasting that disgustingly rusted liquid pooling around his tongue. But it was far from being done with him. He could feel that it was just the beginning of his long torment that might end up with his corpse. With another painful wrench on his scalp, he sensed something firm and frigid brushing against his pursed lips.

Is it that damned claws? 

No, it was different. It was something more refined and solid with that familiar weight... It was a gun. Not as big as his pulse rifle, but massive nonetheless.

"Open up."

He couldn't, or rather, _didn't_ want to believe what it just said - and what that gesture so inelegantly indicated; he may be old but he wasn't senile. Soldier couldn't fail to grasp what it all suggested and was disgusted. Feeling his neck starting to burn up at this obscene implication, he clenched his jaw tight shut and growled. With a lascivious chuckle, it shoved its gun against his lips more forcefully.

"I said, _open, up_."

He didn't budge. He didn't have the remotest inclination to blow a gun to start with, for God's sake, and even if he did, a gun this huge wouldn't fit into his mouth. It would rip apart his lips and wreck the inside of his mouth to ruin for sure... Then soldier caught on with a sudden clarity that it was exactly what it desired. Involuntary shiver ran through his spine at this prospect.

This _thing_ was far more broken than he originally conjectured; twisted and ugly, untouched by light.

So soldier growled against the cold muzzle of the gun, his jaws ironclad, because he had to keep up his diversion tactic going but this time he couldn't filter out his feelings completely. There was a tinge of disgust and pity mixed in, and the thing caught on like a shark does on a drop of blood, and just like the blood does to a shark, his pity ticked it off.

There came a lung crushing thud to his rib cage and soldier was breathless, there wasn't an ounce of air left in his body to squeeze out through his windpipe to make a scream if he wanted to - gasping for breath, he curled up his body as his baser instinct told him to, but it didn't let him; it grabbed his hair and pulled upward with a ruthless force, exposing his abdomen and kicked, and kicked, and kicked - till they both heard a deafening crack. It let go of his hair and soldier slumped, suspended by the chains, barely managing to suck in labored breath, blood dripping from his mouth. Internal bleeding, probably from ruptured small intestines, he thought.

"So,"

It said, its tone calm and collected as you please, which they both knew was a fake.

"Whenever you're ready."

He found himself again pressed against its gun. Old soldier felt dizzy. He was still suffering from the aftermath of oxygen deficiency, and although every breath of air he managed to sip in was a blessing, it also made his head spin like a carousel. He knew in his fuzzy head he wasn't in a proper condition to make the right decision, but -

He spat.

He could feel his captor fuming in darkness beyond; it seems you're not the only one who can sense things through darkness, he mused faintly. Strangely, though, it shared his amusement. It started to laugh. A low screech, more like, maniacal and heartless. He shuddered slightly as its histeric laughter echoed eerily around him, drilling his eardrums. Then came a sudden break of sinister silence, and then - it whammed its gun right into the side of his face, almost knocking him unconscious.

In a haze of pain, soldier concentrated solely on breathing because he needed oxygen to make his brain function and that he needed his best judgement to get out of here alive. It was something engraved in his old bones, not out of teaching, no - but rather through series of coincidents and lucks that got him out of hell holes intact. There were things you would never be able to forget after surviving those special kind of hell, and this was one of them.

_Think, and think proper._

He reconsidered his diversion tactic to hide his blindness, and after recovering from another heavy blow to his other side, he appraised the situation and decided it was time to abort the whole thing; because the damn tactic was working too well and although the thing didn't discover his weakness yet as he hoped, but what use was it for he was going to get killed at this rate anyway. It was a shame that enhancement program didn't make your skull impact-proof.

"Cut it."

He finally croaked with a crack in his voice after the third - or fourth, or fifth - blow. The lune crooned with half sated vice as it shoved its gun to his face. Soldier tried to straighten up in an attempt to scrape up a pinch of dignity for what's coming next, forgetting he had a broken rib and winced. Following impatient jab to his face made him hate his brain for making this decision. He gritted his teeth for the last time and slowly, ever so slowly opened his mouth.

He put a blood soaked kiss on the biting muzzle of its gun.

The sound his half congealed blood made between his lips and metal was _immodest_ , to put it in the nicest way possible and the appreciative, appeased laughter that followed made him wish he just let it snuff him and be done with it.

Only if he could.

He had a debt to pay and taking the easy way out was a commodity he cannot afford. He has to survive this, however demeaning and humiliating the process might be.

"Do go on,"

It urged, its voice somehow softer and creepier. He opened his mouth and tried to swallow the gun's muzzle and fell short. The gun was monstrously misshapen and oversized, how could he ever fit this thing in his - then he recalled what it wanted from him.

Soldier tilted his head sideways and tried a different angle. He managed to put a corner of it in his mouth and tried to beat down a pained groan as the gun's hard edges scraped the ceiling of his already injured mouth, embracing himself for a sudden thrust - and a gout of pain - that would surely ensue.

But it didn't.

The gun didn't show any sign of movement, and although he knew for certainty that this nut case was just biding its time to catch him off guard for a maximum impact, a foolish part of him wished it never happened.

Then it drew away its gun. And with a distant clanking noise of a metal chain, it pushed him with its feet on his chest. He expected the chains binding him to hold him in mid-air, but he fell to the floor on his back without meeting any resistance. He realized that the chains once so tight were loose. 

Sound of heavy footsteps echoed towards him, and he felt its metal boots idly pressing above his throat. It was going to suffocate him to death, apparently having lost interest in him.

I should fight back, he thought, dimly.

Save he couldn't muster the strength nor the brain to do it. His brain was fuzzy from hypoxia again, and he blamed it for having made a stupid decision after all. He should've stuck to his original tactic...

Then he blacked out.

 

 

 

*   *   *

 

 

 

Reaper looked down upon his unconscious captive under the dim light, dumbstruck.

Jack fucking Morrison.

He looked like a wreck with his hair all turned white and big ugly scars across his face, but there was no mistaking him. _How_ could he? He wanted to grab him by the neck and shake with all his might, yelling at his stupid face.

What the fuck are you doing here, alive?

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Reaper finally finds out.
> 
> Little head cannons here and there, Soldier being a devout Christian and still says biblical stuff out of habit after going cold turkey with his religion all these years, his visor being so high tech that you cannot normally feel it's there once you put it on so he develops this cute habit of stroking his cheek and chin when he's absent minded, and how some Omnics don't like Mondata that much because the Gandhi reference seemed quite obvious :)
> 
> Anyhow I enjoyed myself tormenting poor old man but how about you? Let me know what you think :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reaper bails, leaving Soldier clueless.

 

 

 

Normally it was more than enough for Reaper.

The sound of agonized scream and hopeless fear he enjoyed so much feeding off of his prey and of course, the sumptuous smell of blood. This time, however, he wanted something more. He craved to witness this particular prey's face crumble under humiliation and pain as he goes through what he planned as an appetizer. Why not indulge himself a bit more when there was no reason not to? So he turned on the light with a flick of his hand; to see that there _was_ a fucking reason not to, in a form of Jack fucking Morrison.

Reaper tried to regain some sense of reality by concentrating on what he was going to do next.

Reaper was going to fuck his little prey's face with his gun first, and then with his cock, fully enjoying the texture of the ravaged flesh swollen hot and oozing blood, wet and slippery and just a little tangy the way he liked it, and of course the pungent smell of blood, salty and metallic that puts him right snug and comfy, add to that the pained moan and scream from his victim like an extra sprinkle of spice, and he was going to ram his blood soaked cock right into his captive's other hole, tense and tight and oh so full of denial about what's happening, fuck him till all the fight drains out of his body that only sound he's left with was tiny whimper and nothing else, and then, only then, he would finally devour into the main course of reaping.

That was the plan anyway, because now he found himself not being able to lift a fucking spoon.

Reaper watched, transfixed, as living, breathing Jack fucking Morrison tried in vain to envelop the muzzle of his gun with his mouth, his arms bound and stretched out wide like a butterfly specimen, semi coagulated blood sipping out from the corner of his mouth, cheeks swollen from previous rough handling, suppressing groan of pain to an almost inaudible volume, defied by tears starting to well up in those fucking blue eyes, glazed and out of focus from agony -

There came a sudden excruciating stabbing pain in his chest. _In his heart_. Reaper withdrew his gun, clutching at his chest. He didn't thought he still had enough human in him to feel such a thing, but apparently he had.

Reaper pulled the lever that was holding the chains in place, still clutching hard as if he was drowning, loosened the chain and pushed Morrison to the ground, not knowing what he was doing or why. Only after he choked Morrison unconscious then he realized he was just trying to make him shut those eyes away from him, eyes fucking blue even under this dim light, wanting nothing but an escape.

Reaper wanted to swear and unlike Soldier, he didn't refrain himself. He swore loudly nonstop, untill it became physically impossible as his lungs and vocal cords dissipated into billowing dark shadow with the rest of his body.

 

 

 

 

*   *   *

 

 

 

 

"This is the most stable version there yet, but I strongly recommend you to turn it off when you're going to sleep. Otherwise it'll keep feeding your brain with graphic information and that's definitely going to ruin your quality sleep. There have been many reports of nightmares and disturbed sleeps from the patients who forgot to turn theirs off."

The good doctor had a collected matter-of-fact tone about him that was reminiscent of another M.D he knew. She too often failed miserably at hiding her compassion and care for her patients with that façade of cool indifference. Thought of Angela made the corner of his mouth twitch, which was observed and remarked by the doctor.

"What's so funny, Jack?"

He looked up rather too fast at this comment, and saw it _was_ Angela looking down at him with that twinkling smile on her face.

"Never you mind, Doc."

He grunted as he again looked down and observed his bed sheet to hide his emotion. Angela continued.

"So promise me you will turn this off when you're going to sleep, Jack."

"I will."

His answer was quick, solid and a total lie, he knew, because it took 3 seconds to turn the feed back on and 3 seconds without visual meant life and death in his line of work. Angela beamed down at him at the words he gave, however, and to see her laugh was definitely worth a lie.

She won't be mad at him for the fact that less than a few weeks time he got himself used to nightmares and shallow sleeps, that he did not turned off his visor for all those years that followed, not for once, not just for five minutes, because this, he knew was a prelude to his regular nightmares and he has never met Angela since his presumed death. What she doesn't know cannot hurt her.

He twiddled his fingers hoping this would last a little longer. It's been years since he last saw her, after all.

"Angela."

"Yes, Jack?"

His tongue got stuck in his throat. It took him some time to figure out what he wanted most to say to her, and as he pondered he admired her radient presence by him.

"Are you well?"

He croaked out, abrupt and awkard. It was all that mattered, after all. Her expression grew impassive at his question, however. He cowered.

Not her, please.

He pleaded to God-knows-what evil that presides this messed up dream of his, fearful at what will come next. Angela opened her mouth and her voice was cold.

"It's funny you should ask. After all, it was you that got us killed."

"I..."

His voice vanished as he watched dozen or more loosely scattered bullets shot through her chest with an ear splitting blast, nearly tearing up her torso into small pieces with their impact, as blood gushed out from her open wounds and he was drenched with it, and all the while her gaze - her cold, reproaching eyes never left his. He squeezed out air in an attempt speak.

"It wasn't me. It wasn't, Angela..."

He choked, as twelve sharp metal claws clawed its way out of her hollow chasm, splitting her apart, and that thing, the faceless hunk of dense shadow followed through, making her scream and scream and it laughed its horrible laugh -

Soldier woke from his stupor with a jolt. He lay still, cold sweats running down his spines and feeling feverish, his useless eyes tight shut. He swore nonsensical in his head, trying to forget. Then he realized something.

The feed. My visor.

This nightmare that keeps him from sleeping more than thirty minutes at a time - sometimes ten - was the characteristic side effect of his visor sending its feed during his sleep. He had his nightmare just now, a horrible one, which means he was receiving its feed while he was unconscious on the floor. He never knew there will actually come a time when he would be glad to have a nightmare, but he was. He opened his eyes and indeed he was seeing something other than stiflingly uniform blackness. There were patches of irregularities here and there, where darkeness steepened for some reason. 

Probably blood from other captives spattered across the wall, he thought. 

There was also a welcoming sight of faint light, he could distinguish the right bottom corner of his vision that was a little brighter.

It can't be that far away.

He was quite sure his visor was in less than 3 feet radius from him, which was what the good doctor explained about its transmission range, so definitely not much farther or otherwise he wouldn't be receiving any feed at all.

He slowly moved his head and stifled an involuntary yelp of pain. His neck and face hurt like hell, not to mention his broken ribs.

Still the old soldier didn't give up. The thing wasn't here for now, it seemed and he had to make the most out of it. No time to lose. He groped around in darkness searching for his visor, carefully feeling the cold floor trying not to miss a spot. He also concentrated on the visual he was receiving, trying to see if there's any change as he moves, but the blotchy darkness remained undisturbed and soon Soldier's search was cut short by the chains. It was loose alright, but not at all enough to cover all 3 feet radius of space.

Unyielding, he changed his direction and managed to cover every inch of space the chain allowed, but came out void. He lay down on his back, panting slightly. It was a time consuming labor for his broken bones and he felt disheartened at the thought of his visor waiting for him just outside the reach of this God dammed leash.

Maybe it's on top of a desk, or a shelf.

It was a promising possibility, since during his search his visual feed did not stirr an inch, unperturbed by his movements. Only problem was _the thing_ didn't strike him as a type to put away its victim's belonging gently above anything. Throwing it away without a care, was more fitting to that maniacal character. Then he came to ask something he thought of as holding a lesser priority.

Why am I still alive?

He thought he was done. He misjudged things and complied to its needs perhaps too early, and it definitely seemed to have lost its interest.

Possibly it was disturbed by some emergency. Or was there a chance that it just left him here to starve to death?

He contemplated on the thought for a while and shook his head. This place was its feeding place, a lair. Decaying corpse chained up in the middle of it would be an ugly home decor even for that wackjob.

No, it will definitely come back and finish what it had started; which would be...

Soldier grated his teeth. He was no fool and he knew perfectly well what will consequently follow after that episode with its gun. He felt his blood rampaging through his vein, furious; He would not let it... _rape_ him.

After finishing second fruitless search for his visor, Soldier began to prepare himself with a plan.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm finally going back home where I can use my computer and some decent internet :)  
> Let me know what you think on this chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reaper reminisces Morrison and their feuds, and becomes delirious.

 

 

Old soldier's deduction was half correct.

Reaper initially bailed out of sheer panic, just wanting to get the fuck out of there, and he roamed about the desolate dark alleys in a state of confusion, his body half dissolved into shadows without him being aware and murderous intentions in his eyes. He didn't know what to think; or maybe he didn't want to think about what he just saw in there. 

Morrison. 

He leered as he recalled that self righteous blue eyes. You never mistake them for another once you see what he had seen.

'Reyes.'

Morrison responded, in his reminiscence. Hair still golden and face unmarred, Morrison was giving him the look he hated so much.

'Please tell me you didn't mean what you said earlier.'

It was a private gathering, of sort, just the two of them in the middle of a vacant briefing room where Overwatch meetings generally took place. The distance between them was nowhere close enough for a casual conversation let alone serious one, but none of them had any inclination to move a step forward toward the other. They glared at each other for a moment, and it was Morrison who broke the silence; as usual.

_As if he was above such childishness._

Corner of his mouth twitched inadvertently with disgust. Not knowing any better because of the safe distance between them, Morrison continued.

'It's too risky. If we push through with your tactics, the number of casualties would...'

Morrison was being insufferable, the way he always does, rambling about the damn casualties and risks. War doesn't run on numbers or morality or ethics or any of that soft shit, and it was outrageous that this naive little sunshine hadn't caught up on it yet; despite all these years they spent in battles.  _When will he learn? And they thought this imbecile was better than me._

He cut Morrison off in the middle.

'We can handle it. Overwatch exists for a reason and it's not cowering behind the numbers and calculating odds.'

Morrison's eyes narrowed at this snide remark, but turned his head away with that condescending little sigh. He wanted to punch him.

'You always talk about prioritizing and winning the battle, Reyes, but we can still win a war even if we lose a battle or two and if that's the way we can secure more lives, then I'm not afraid to take a detour.'

Reyes scoffed at this display of infantile ideology.

'Let's talk about your little detour, then. Since you are so keen on numbers, what are the odds of your plan achieving zero casualty?'

'That's...'

Reyes waited. He wanted Morrison to say it with his own mouth. Morrison bit his lips, and reluctantly opened up.

'It's not high, but it's much higher than...'

Reyes laughed a derisive laugh.

'Don't tell me you're about to say that your plan is better because it has lower number of expected fatalities; because that's just an awful thing to say; didn't one life matter just as much as many?'

From the distance he could still see Morrison was torn; but he wasn't done yet. He took a few menacing steps closer.

'That's that for the casualties, how about risks? Wouldn't all those lives be wasted for nothing if we lose after all? So why are you so desperate to choose low risk, low return tactic when there's actually nothing to gain from it?'

Morrison hung his head. Reyes took a few strides - they were almost neck and neck, and He hissed into young strike commander's ears.

'Truth is, you are just too damn soft and weak. You don't want to lose lives because you are afraid of what follows next; the backlash and condemnations thrown at you. You are too much of a coward to suck it up and be that person who makes hard decisions and takes the fall. You got no temperament to lead anything, good boy.

'Man up, commander.'

Morrison's head shot up at his last taunt, taking a step back, and his blue eyes were ablaze with fury.

'Same goes for you, Reyes.'

He was taken aback. He didn't expect Morrison to talk back because he never did; however rudely he treated him. Always in his elements and polite, Jack Morrison was. He didn't raise his voice though, as if that was some kind of a final line he was determined never to cross. Reyes's former deputy officer just growled with gravely voice that was unfitting his pretty face.

'You see our team members as a pawn and regard civilian casualties as some meaningless figures on paper works and it makes me sick. You take pride in lack of compassion and I pity you, truly, for the havoc this war has caused on you; but I cannot tolerate your delusion of self grandeur anymore.'

Reyes couldn't believe what he was hearing; and then he saw a flash of authentic pity crossing those eyes.

'How dare you - '

'There will be no more asking for your advice from now on. I did it not because I had to but because I still respected you in some way and I valued teamwork over my private feelings. But it seems you're not remotely interested in any of those but insulting me, so what's the point?'

With a last look of exasperated pity, he turned his back on him. Reyes was about to jump him, ready to teach this arrogant bastard a lesson until -

'Dismissed.'

Jack Morrison pulled a rank on him and all the fight suddenly lost its charm.

'Coward,'

He spat and walked away, closing the door behind him not so gently.

Reaper rammed his fist into the wall.

That self righteous, cowardly son of a bitch was supposed to be dead, that was his only solace. The fuck is that bastard doing here, crawling out of his grave?

He felt sick. Everything was fine right before this shit showed up, and now Morrison was fucking things up for him again. 

Reaper was about to turn on his heels and go back to put him right back where he belonged when alerted with a note. It was about some wealthy pig willing to pay a big cash to hire him for a cleaning job. The job seemed way beneath him, too damn easy, and normally he would've rejected it because he wasn't doing his mercenary job for the money per se, but rather out of his unique necessities; not to mention the pure fun of it all, the thrill of battle rippling through his nerves like an electrocution was addictive more than anything. Reaper accepted the offer despite all those, however, for he was starting to feel his hunger growing because he missed his dinner because of that piece of shit and he had to pay some immediate attention to it.

So that was how Reaper ended up harvesting lives in a frenzy. He was a whirlwind of lethal shadow shrouded in billowing storm of bullets and fear; a materialized death walking among the living. Nobody made it out alive to dare contradict him.

Yet reaper felt unsettled rage as the throbbing, aching hunger inside him didn't subside at all, in spite of multitudinous lives he was reaping at record speed. What was more strange was that it was working the other way around; his hunger seemed to get exacerbated by every soul he took. He growled with agitation.

His deteriorating/regenerating body needed vast amount of energy directly fed from living things, therefore the reaping, but this - rushed harvesting did close to nothing to sate his hunger. He needed his feast, it was the only way he could feel - relaxed and satisfied. To some degree, at least. That feeling of stability was a scarce commodity ever since he became the embodiment of death.

Being something more than a meager animal was a good thing, but it wasn't without its catch. That was the way he liked to put it in his mind.

Reaper dispersed himself into milliard of particles as dozens of shrapnel bombs exploded around him, and the feeling of unnerving disquiet intensified, aggravating his hunger. He was in pain. His head started to ache along with his stomach too and his eyes flashed red with just a little tinge of madness as he materialized again at the top of a watch tower, searching for a let out. _A vent_ he could use, hopefully a fresh meat - and his eyes landed on a sniper lying on his stomach in the shadow, eyes fixed on the scope, blissfully unaware of his surroundings.

Reaper crept up behind his new target and rammed his boots down into the sniper's back, barely holding himself from breaking its spine. There was a pain stricken cry and the sniper rolled away from his boots, aiming its rifle at him with a swift move, and Reaper gladly readied himself for a little hunt; only to see fear eating away his prey. It went all rigid as it realized what it was confronting, the most infamous merc who deserved the outlandish moniker _the angel of death_. Within a second there was no fight left in it, but Reaper was feeling so hungry that he mercifully granted it a second chance.

"Stand up and fight,"

He invited with his utmost welcoming tone but it didn't respond; and Reaper didn't have a taste for sour meat.

So he decided to play with the spoiled food while he contemplated for a neat solution for his deficiencies. He kicked it around a bit, repeatedly, without putting much thought into it, oblivious to the fact that his blows were intensifying with every kick and that he was fuming; there was a crushing pain in his head and he was hungry. He needed to eat. He craved that warm satisfaction filling him up from the inside and there was nothing, no fucking decent meat anywhere to feast upon.

He rammed his boot once more with a meaty thud, and realized the spoiled meat wasn't moving anymore, nor it made a single sound. He looked down and saw a mangled bloody pulp, immobile and dead.

"Worthless weakling!"

Reaper threw a copious amount of insults at the dead meat, not bearing in mind for a fleeting second that he was kicking its head like a football with his steel boots for the last minute, and that human body was weaker than you might give it credit for. Instead, his mind was solely distracted by his aching hunger and escalating migraine. Clutching his mask and groaning desperately, he furiously racked his brain for means to get his hands on a fresh meat.

But there _was_ a fresh meat in your hand, Reaper reminded himself.

You got him chained up in your alcove, and he's still there for you to grab. Why are you searching for other options when you already have Jack Morrison at your mercy?

Not to mention that Morrison was the ultimate treat for his bottomless pit, for the former Overwatch strike commander was the true mastermind behind all this fuck up. Reaper could not believe he did not think about Jack Morrison sooner. It was as if he was subconsciously avoiding that motherfucker, afraid of a mere human bound in all fours.

He swore some more at that outrageous thought, his eyes glowing with inhumane blood red.

Then Reaper burst out laughter that sounded far more delirious than usual, unstable like a ticking bomb and much more lethal. His laughs subsided after a few minutes.

I won't let you fuck things up this time, Morrison, no... It's time for you to get fucked.

He will go back, right now, Reaper thought, and feast upon Jack Morrison. He didn't care anymore about what the fuck he was doing here alive and well - it didn't matter. His headache was granting him clarity he needed so much; He had one hell of a fresh meat named Jack Morrison, as simple as that; that was all he needed to think about. Reaper will fuck Morrison till he breaks and it'll feel so good, so rewarding and fulfilling; the prospect was exhilarating.

 

  

 

 

*   *   *

 

 

 

 

Soldier was trying to locate the hypothetical shelf or a table - more hopefully, his visor - in the dark by dragging the loose chains this way and that and see if they collide with anything, when he heard the faint rustle. With a soft pop, dim light went off and his vision became uniform pitch black again.

The thing was back as he suspected, and before he could figure out his next move, there came a blow in his already broken ribs, and he fell to the ground on his back, shielding his sides, but it was useless when you cannot see a thing and your opponent could. The thing started to crush his exposed neck and soldier scrabbled to grab its metal boot leaving his chest unguarded; it lifted its feet and crashed it down again with a brutal force on his chest - right on top of his sternum; forcing air to escape his lungs in a fit of coughs. In the midst of searing coughs and head spinning pain, Soldier felt his ribs creaking dangerously above his lungs. He shoved its feet away as hard as he can and managed to wheeze out between the coughs.

"Stop, or else,"

The thing didn't kick back in answer, and he took the chance to gingerly push himself up into a sitting position, collecting his breath and clutching his sides; feeling his bones for possible cracks. He felt light headed. God it hurt like hell.

"Or else what?"

Sinister voice of his captor whispered in his ears and soldier balled up his fist to hide his emotions. It sounded like it wasn't in a jolly mood it had been before, and for a split second he thought about whether he should go through with this, and decided there wasn't any time for second thoughts.

"Or else, I'll drown in my own blood," 

He felt something trickling down his chin and wiped it. Blood, most likely, from previous internal bleeding in his small intestines or newly made one. Soldier continued after swallowing down lumps of blood clots.

"...from punctured lungs before you can fuck me."

The thing was silent for a moment and he ventured.

"So why don't you have some consistency, for Christ's sake."

Prolonged silence that ensued made him wonder if he said it the wrong way. He was no expert when it comes to psychopath psychology; although he did take a course on behavioral analysis of criminals and terrorists. It wasn't proving helpful with this thing so far.

"Which is it? Do you want to fuck me or kill me?"

Soldier felt a sudden shifting of air around him, and it wasn't wind. It was that thing - he was sure of it; engulfing him in that smoky state like a cocoon. He shuddered as he felt its mask brushing behind his neck and more importantly, vibration of its vocal cords through the contact as it rasped.

"Unfortunately I'm that person who has to have the cake and eat it, so I'm going to fuck you till you crack, and then choke you to death for my last come. Is that good enough answer for you?"

"Of course not, what do you expect?"

Soldier spat, but his head was busy figuring out what he just found out. This thing had to re materialize at least its head and vocal cords before it could speak. So this thing wasn't totally free from the laws of physics. Good news. 

Which means that theoretically, this thing can be killed if you put a bullet through its head out of the blue. Or will it just re materialize after its brains got blasted into smithereens?

"You do have a point, nevertheless. I'll try to avoid fatal damage for now..."

He growled as he felt its claws around his neck. He backed away to his right, avoiding it, but it followed him without even losing contact with him - he imagined the thing gliding through darkness in a hazy dark smoke and winced at the horrifying image. He was brought back from his reverie with a clanking yank to his left ankle. He has reached the end of his restraints. 

He flinched as the thing's other set of claws started unzipping his jacket. He writhed and tried to punch and kick it with his left arm and leg, his right arm still clutching his broken rib cage protectively, only to get stuck in mid air by the chains; the grip around his throat strengthened as it whispered menacingly.

"I thought you rather don't have your lungs jacked up by your own bones, but I don't mind either way."

"No, you would mind."

Until you're done fucking me, anyway. He thought, estimating his right arm's free range surreptitiously. Soldier intentionally moved to his right to give his right arm a maximum degree of freedom. His original thought was to strangle the thing with his right arm and the chain hanging from it, but it was too likely that it'll vaporize its way out of it. It took very long to knock out a person with strangulation. So now he was biding his time to smash a punch squarely into this thing's temple and knock it down cold.

Albeit his messed up physical state and the weight of chains dragging his arm down, he thought he had a good chance. He didn't let himself go slack even after that incident and the enhancement program still lingered in his blood and muscles. Only glitch with this plan was he still hadn't recovered his sight yet. He knew he had but one chance, so the rational choice would be to wait until he could be sure where its head was, solid, immobile and distracted just for a few seconds - and he could only think of one optimal moment.

The moment after it comes.

He didn't like that idea at all.

 

  

 

 

*   *   *

 

 

 

_I'll drown in my own blood... from punctured lungs before you can fuck me._

Reaper looked down at Morrison lying beneath him, who was trying to shield his broken bones with one arm from him. Without any lights, he couldn't exactly see in details such as his pain stricken unfocused eyes or bloody lips, but he could see clearly enough to know that his officially dead enemy wasn't exaggerating anything. He could smell the thick blood with a hint of bitterness that suggested something inside him ruptured and losing out digestive liquids, sense abnormal heat emanating from his feverish skin, and the unstable erratic beatings of his heart.

Something fell with a thud inside him as he took in this visage.

_I'll try to avoid fatal damage for now._

Reyes muttered. His own voice sounded distant and distorted. Morrison was a mess, not much in a better state than that dead meat from earlier; but this son of a bitch was showing no sign of giving up and he would've been excited at this level of unusual fight left in his prey - only he wasn't somehow.

_No, you would mind._

It was almost like he knew what was going on inside him. Yes, he would mind, _he was minding right now_ , but that was not the point. The point was that this was Jack Morrison who deserved every inch of his wrath and the mind numbing pain in his head and hunger wouldn't subside until he had his feast. Angry at Morrison for fucking things up _and_  messing with his head, Reaper tore apart his jacket with one hand still maintaining a death grip over his throat.

He moved his hand slowly, palming his old colleague's chest and abdomen, which was just as packed and rock solid as it once was; clear sign of daily training. His fucked up brain spewed broken thoughts like  _how typical Morrison._

Reaper moved his hands further down, unbuckling his pants. He could feel Morrison's body trembling slightly under him, as he drew in inaudible breath out of anger mixed with fear. That tinge of fear was all it took for his famished body.

His eyes glowed red in steep darkness. 

Only thing he could see now was a sumptuous meat tagged with his old deputy's name.

He pounced.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Legion invaded Azeroth yet again, and what can a humble Blizz fan do except answer the call and fight them off? lol I'll try to come back sooner.  
> And for this short piece, I wanted to maintain some degree of hardcore non-con but It's weaving its own way towards something sappy. I don't mind but how about you? it'll be nice to know what you think :) help me change the course.. or not :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reaper loses it, and defies his better judgement.

 

 

 

"Open up."

Reaper demanded menacingly as he yanked a handful of white hair forcefully toward his hardened cock. He could feel his prey's well trained muscles resisting, but right now he wasn't in a state to enjoy it. Through ever so hazy darkness and pain, radiating heat from his prey was the only thing he could see clearly. He made a threat.

"Or I can use your blood as a lube. Actually I would prefer that way - "

Reaper cut short as he felt the resilient muscles going slack and there was a sudden wave of hot, humid breath softly grazing his exposed skin and finally, satisfying warm touch of flesh welcomed him. Enjoying the warmth that has been evading him for all these years, Reaper looked down at his captive.

It was mouthing tentatively as if it was still undecided, hesitant to go further than just brushing its bruised lips against the tip of his captor's cock; which was refreshing and arousing in a way he never expected. He felt his cock getting harder. He wanted more. He _needed_ more.

He grabbed its head with both hands, longing for the scorching heat that awaited him past those lips, and with a savage thrust he crashed in to its mouth; it lurched and grabbed his thighs, metal chains clanking and its muscles all tensed up, in an attempt to push him away or just to hold on to something out of sheer panic. Even _that_ felt like an endearing invitation because inside of its mouth was so hot - no, _hot_ was just a fucking rhetoric that in no way can capture the truth of it all. It felt like his disarmed enemy was trying to sizzle him to death as a last resort; which was partly because its body was heated up to fight off the bacterial infection from its wounds and partly because Reaper's body temperature was significantly lower than that of a normal human being. His forever regenerating body sucked energy constantly like some cosmic glitch, and on the process drained ambient heat along with it. His internal body temperature was barely above the required minimum temperature to keep cell metabolism going - ergo making his existence possible. He heard others weren't so lucky.

Who gives a fuck about those dammed losers anyway? 

He thought, angrily. It was never a pleasant topic to pay a mental visit to.

Speaking of giving a fuck...

Reaper looked down at his piece of meat. It was half stunned, its chained hands still resting on Reaper's thighs and it was just half kneeling there with his cock in its mouth, not knowing or maybe not wanting to know what to do next.

"Use your tongue and suck,"

Reaper growled his suggestion without hiding obvious edges of pleasure in his voice; and his prey surprisingly obeyed his demand. maybe the empty threat he made earlier was still in effect. It was dead clumsy at sucking his cock however, as if it had never done that kind of thing before. It was wincing slightly as it tried haphazardly to suck his cock using its tongue. Reaper was struck with a sudden urge to see its face; it must be filled with delicious humiliation and anguish. But something was telling him he shouldn't turn on the lights and was reluctant to give him legitimate reason for it.

Whatever. 

He wouldn't be able to see it thoroughly in this fuzzy state anyway. Reaper ran his finger through its hair, held its head firmly and without a warning initiated his own thrusting movements. There came a stifled groan from his victim, and it tried to pull away from him but he wasn't about to let go of it that easily. Not now, not when he just got started. Instead he rammed himself in with brutal force, bottomed out, fucking the searing throat of its captive. His prey's entire torso reeled with evident gag reflex, clutching Reaper's legs for dear life and convulsing to break free from his grip.

It's resistance only aroused him further, something it definitely would not have desired. Reaper smashed his cock into the wet, blistering flesh again and again till he came; and only after making sure it swallowed his cum he let it fall back to the ground. It made a retching sound, curled up on the floor but nothing came out.

Reaper stooped over his captive and it twitched its shoulders as if it wanted nothing but to punch him in the face. Reaper was ecstatic. His migraine was already subsiding somewhat, and yet his prey was still delightfully promising.

Maybe I should keep this one, just for another use.

Reaper shoved it with his boot to spread it flat out on the floor nice and smooth, and when he encountered resistance, he inched away his feet toward that creaking fractured bones. He felt its defiance falter with a sharp intake of breath, and it lay flat on its back with a soft thud.

Reaper knelt down and stripped his prey bare, almost ripping the resilient fabrics in his haste. It lay still as he spread its legs wide open and started kneading his already hardened cock against its warm, soft genitals. He could tell, however, that it was terrified about what's coming next; its whole body was stiff like a chiseled out wooden sculpture. Cowering over his victim, Reaper reached out one hand and grabbed its chin. He leaned down. They were almost nose to nose, only thing between them being his horrendous skull-like mask.

"Loosen up."

There was a muffled hitched breathing at his demand, and after a few seconds it let out a long labored breath and he knew that it was bracing itself. 

"Just fuck me already and be done with it."

Its tone was so matter-of-fact and nonchalant and in his delirious frenzy of deficiency, Reaper still found its attempt at an impassive guise captivating. His mirth rang out in the vacant dark room.

"With pleasure."

With a vicious ferocity he rammed his cock into his prey's tight hole, and it was just right, comfortable and satisfying... and he sensed fresh smell of blood. It seemed that despite his cock was dripping with its saliva and blood mixed with his cum, he ripped some of its delicate flesh with his initial entry. It didn't make a sound, however, probably biting it down with all its might; as if that counted as a silent resistance or something. Reaper was amused that it was putting in that much of an effort for such a useless cause... and it made him suddenly angry for some reason he cannot recall.

He wanted to break it.

Reaper fucked his victim with an increasing savage force and after some hard thrusting, he realized that it was covering its mouth with its arm - biting it down till its own skin tear and bled to impede any sound from escaping its throat. He wouldn't have it.

"How dare you,"

He menaced. Reaper grabbed its wrist with one hand and slammed it above its head, and finally pain stricken moans and whimper broke out from his victim; and it was a feast for his ears. Its irregular whimpers grew into a downright sob as he tear through its holes repeatedly, using it as nothing more than a tight, sweltering hole.

The moment has come. Reaper will witness his prey collapse by being degraded into his private fucking hole, and the look on its face when that happens will be priceless, so overwhelmingly so that it might actually free him from his chronic condition.

He turned on the light, and stared down at his arch enemy; triumphant. His old enemy was stripped naked and spread out wide below him just for his convenient usage, his face strewn with tears and spattered with fresh blood from self inflicted bite wounds, all the while sobbing out of control. Reaper purred with exhilaration as he stared down at those self righteous blue irises that were wide open and unfocused, and fucked him some more, taking in the satisfying visage as the limp body shook under him. Reaper reached down and clenched his windpipe for extra pleasure and the limp body immediately tensed up. Reaper groaned as he felt the searing flesh tightening around his cock, squeezing, and it was so right, so fucking relaxing... his head didn't hurt anymore.

Then with a sudden clarity he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Morrison. He wasn't trying to push him away, but rather seemed like he didn't know what he was doing nor cared. His sobs were almost inaudible now, and his blue eyes were still glazed and out of focus. 

'Gabriel.'

Reaper flinched, as those pair of wide open blue irises wandered in to meet his gaze directly.

 

 

 

 

*   *   *

 

 

 

 

"Gabriel. Gabe."

He looked down at a firm hand gripping his shoulder that was giving him a slight shake. He looked up, to meet an equally strong set of firm eyes looking into his. It was his deputy officer, with a hint of concern in his face.

"Jack."

"You all right?"

"'Course I am,"

It was more of a Pavlovian response than an answer, and his deputy officer gave him a reproachful look rather than refuting him out loud.

"Well, I'm not. Then again, I guess it's better than feeling nothing."

They were in his office and it was nearly midnight. Morrison sat beside him on the couch and started to disassemble his weaponry for cleaning. It was a monotonous manual work but Reyes didn't think his deputy missed it out for a single day, not even during his off days. That was the kind of person his deputy was. Honest, solid, everything by the book. Corner of his mouth twitched as he observed his friend at work.

"You knew him?"

"Kind of,"

"Of course you did. You know everyone."

Morrison's answer was a bit slurred as he slowly responded, his hands still busy.

"It depends, on how you define that word. I knew his face, name and maybe his favorite brand of beer. Nothing much."

He could see Jack was torn by some impossible standard he set upon himself. Reyes hated that particular aspect of his friend. Morrison always strove to see the best in people, and that habit also made him raise his standard for himself to an absurdly high level when he delved into himself.

"That's pretty much everything there is to know, damn you. Favorite beer brand..."

His voice trailed off as he watched Morrison's lips curl up into a faint smile. Morrison looked up from his artillery, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

"By that logic, I guess it's safe to say that I know everything about you Gabe."

Reyes raised his eyebrow. 

"Get out of here. You know my favorite beer? I don't know my favorite beer."

Jack grinned.

"It's Guinness."

"No way,"

"Uh-uh. Think. What was your first choice the other day?"

Reyes racked his brain. His first order of that night _was_ Guinness, now he came to think about it, but it wasn't his favorite. 

"But I ordered Bud right after that."

"And then you ordered Guinness again. You try other stuff from time to time but you always go back for Guinness. Definitely your favorite."

Reyes rubbed his chin.

"Hah. I can't believe you remember all that, you creepy bastard."

Jack laughed at his theatrical pretense of disgust. It suited him much better than that subtle gloom from moments ago.

"Just a friendly observation. I got your best interest at heart, Gabe."

Reyes punched him playfully on the chest.

"Then go get some of your own. These things happen. We move on."

"I guess so, but it feels indecent. Moving on, I mean."

Reyes furrowed his brows as he watched fresh wave of sadness welling up in those honest eyes. That quality was not a good thing to have in times like this and especially for soldiers such as themselves. Death of a fellow soldier should be a daily thing that can be forgotten over the night, no matter how unfortunate and horrendous the manner of death was. He had an ominous suspicion that this decency might be the death of his good friend.

"Shut up. Let's go grab some beers."

"Are you buying it, commander Reyes?"

"Shut up. I'm gonna get that alleged favorite beer of mine and see how I like it. You can watch me."

Said Reyes, without even cracking a smile. Jack broke out in laughter at this jive.

That's better, he thought to himself.

"And then after that, maybe we can drink to that poor bastard."

His old friend and deputy officer smiled at him with a radiant warmth.

"I would like that."

 

 

 

 

*   *   *

 

 

 

 

Soldier would've like to know what was going on inside his captor's head. It stopped fucking him all of a sudden and he could hear muffled growling and panting, as if it was in a tremendous pain and was covering its face - mask. He could also make out a few incoherent words between the growls that seemingly had nothing to do with him.

"It... fault... you made..."

But it didn't matter. It must be going through some kind of psychotic break and this was his only chance he's been enduring for. Soldier reached up his left hand, slowly as to not to alert it. After a few seconds that felt like forever, his fingers brushed up against its cold skin behind the mask. The thing turned its head abruptly and Soldier flinched, but it just nuzzled its head against his palm like some vulnerable sick puppy desperate for a touch of warmth.

Soldier soothed the thing, steadying it and keeping it's head in place, and then with a careful aim slammed his right hook into its temple. It keeled over sideway, and no sound followed suit. No faint rustling, no groaning, nothing.

Soldier scrambled up to his feet and started to rummage through his unconscious captor's garments. He was literally dying to murder this wacko right there and then for what it had done to him and at the same time he wanted to kill himself and free himself from this disgusting unclean body of his, but he managed to suppress those urges. First he didn't have any weopnry that can finish off this thing with one shot, not even a knife, and although kicking it to death was an overwhelmingly tempting option, it was too likely that it'll wake up in the middle of it and just vaporize into thin air. As for killing himself, he can peel his skin off any time later when he's safely out of this fucking den.

 

 

 

  
   
  
   
   
  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was tormented a bit, but decided to be honest with myself thanks to your kind inputs. This chapter basically sums up what I'm into; angsty stuff mixed with a bit of sap and mainly just picking on this poor old man. Hope some of you enjoyed it :)


End file.
